my book theory

1/17
When you start a new book, you should find a new place or frame of mind to read it than the previous one. This is what I believe had contributed to my enjoyment of several books, and I know from other's experience had greatly impacted their impressions of the story. For example, I read 'Olive's Ocean' when I was in RI, not too far from Cape Cod and dreaming of the ocean, and falling in love with writing. When my flight out of BOS after graduation and all was delayed (eventually overnight) I bought 'Wind-Up Bird' and began reading it in the airport. I read 'Marriage Plot' (which takes place at Brown/RI) at home as I processed post-grad memories and feelings. I also read 'Hard-Boiled Wonderland' at home, yet around when I was working on my 'Esse' story, and couldn't help but feel I was copying him with my double dream/surreal world plot. 'Franny & Zooey' I read in several places, including in between teaching, and I'd been given it from my ex, when we first split up. (He knew I'd relate terribly much to Franny, which was so true I felt unoriginal yet okay with that for once. If I've gained anything undeniably worthwhile from him, it is my found love of Salinger.) Not too long ago, I borrowed 'After Dark' and 'Raise High the Roof-Beam, Carpenters, & Seymour'. As I've recorded previously, I read 'After Dark' when the title states, and at the beginning of an all-nighter. Perfection. Then I got to 'Seymour' after my snake had passed, reading it carefully at my new desk until I'm too drowsy to move. (Buddy Glass style) Now, I've begun 'Kafka on the Shore' - I'd peeked into a few pages earlier, but I actually got to reading this afternoon at Seal Beach.

For the past few days, I've been wanting to run away - specifically to Irvine, to hold him in my arms again. In order to divert myself I've been working, either on teaching or projects, but it's difficult to be at home for too long. On Thursday, I went walking for about an hour, listening to Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. Yesterday I wanted to drive, so I headed to my favorite Starbucks in the LBX area, and was lucky to find a perfectly empty table. But today, it was warmer out, and I had a strong image of reading my newest Murakami on the beach that I could not get out of my head. My bag was packed with a blue & green patterned towel, my notebook, a pencil, my white canteen, half an apple in a baggie, the book, and my wallet. I wore my cream-colored long sleeve and GAP zip-up but also brought my red jacket since I knew it'd get cold. The time was 3:30pm when I left and it took about 20 minutes to drive to the pier. It was easy enough to find a spot, and not abnormally clear on the shore, since it is January. There were several couples evenly spaced about me. As I decided upon an area to lay my towel, I turned around and realized it felt unfamiliar. The lifeguard towers had been removed. It's likely I was sitting very near to the tower where I'd attempted to sing a song to him, but just ended up quietly playing ukulele. (and pretending to be mad) But now it's an area for seagulls to huddle like a bunch of beached clams.

I burrowed a dip in the sand for my butt and sat on my towel, with my legs extended straight in front of me so I could read from my lap. It was already mildly cold so I put my hoodie over my head. While 'Kafka' was being greeted by a girl stranger who is slightly older, an older man, probably in his 50's, came nearby. At first I was nervous, yet he pulled out a camera and was clearly solely focused on the reddening sun. I had stop reading for awhile to fully absorb the sunset myself. The clouds were pulling outward, as if the sun was weighing down their sheets and causing folds. The saturated glow tinted most everything slightly pink. Then suddenly, the field of clammed gulls lifted and cut little black eyelids across the sky. In a small storm, they continued out towards the horizon until I couldn't see them anymore. At many instances I nearly cried. I could've, but I was still technically in public and self-conscious about the old photographer next to me. It was a beautiful aloneness yet it verged on despairing loneliness.

When I could no longer read by the sun, about 5:30pm, I packed up and walked some ways down by the pier. I walked back not much later since I only had parking til 6pm. I peered over the left side (from facing the sea) into the water, and the inky darkness felt oddly familiar. I soon remembered how many times I'd leaned to stare at the inky water in the Providence canal when I'd be coming back from studio.

tmp